


The Album

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Body Image, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory finds a photo album of Mycroft when he was overweight...and he likes it...a lot.  Which might not be a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is an epilogue on the way which wraps this one up. Inspired by (and written with permission from) the wonderful "Feeding Sherlock" series by Atlinmerrick and equally wonderful "Dessert" by Woe-in-a-Hoodie. This story would be nothing, nothing I tell you, without the massive beta and editing effort of Atlinmerrick. I bow to the goddess! Any mistakes are mine. Cross-posted at LJ.

He found the pictures not long after he'd moved into the house. He'd been effectively living with Mycroft for months before the man had worked up the nerve to finally invite Greg to officially combine their living arrangements. Those were the exact words he'd used, "combine our living arrangements." Greg, of course, had accepted, and six weeks later found himself alone in the house with a rare weekend off and Mycroft called away last minute to Whereeverthefuckistan to work his magic. Greg had started the day with a bit of a lie in, but was roused soon enough by his empty stomach.

He wandered into the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast. Greg was actually often awake before Mycroft on days when cases weren't completely fucking with his hours, so he was used to handling breakfast duty. Which was easy enough as Greg usually just had cereal, and Mycroft always had two slices of unbuttered toast. In return, Mycroft usually took care of dinner. On the evenings when Greg managed to make it home at a decent hour, he got the great pleasure of watching Mycroft prepare their meal while Greg sipped on a beer and they discussed their respective days.

Too often though, Greg wouldn't make it home until rather late in the evenings and would find a plate waiting for him in the warmer. Mycroft ate promptly at seven in the evenings and would not alter his schedule to accommodate Greg's own erratic one. Greg couldn't blame him one bit for that, and, though he'd already eaten, Mycroft would still join Greg at the table while he ate and they chatted about their day. It was all very routine and very domestic and very fucking wonderful, thank you very much.

So, that Saturday morning found Gregory Lestrade in his boxer shorts and tshirt sitting at the breakfast table alone eating a bowl of Frosted Shreddies contemplating what to do with himself on this rare free day with no Mycroft to keep him entertained. There were a few games of footie on later in the day that day, but it would be a couple of hours before anything worth watching would be on. What to do? What to do?

That's when Greg remembered the two banker boxes that had been stacked in a hall closet waiting for him to sort. As most of the things he used in his day-to-day life had long since been moved into the house before the "official combination," the boxes were all that were left from his apartment to sort through. That would kill some time and get a nagging item off his to-do list. After changing into his weekend uniform of threadbare jeans and a faded tshirt, Greg headed to the hall closet and pulled out the boxes with the remainder of his possessions from the flat.

The first was quickly sorted as off the charity shop. The other contained few mementos left him by his parents and two bulging photo albums. He was already fighting against feeling a bit pathetically lonesome by himself in the large house, and feared a stroll down his own memory lane would inspire more melancholy than nostalgia. So he decided to leave the mementos for later and put the unopened albums downstairs in the library where he'd spotted a few Holmes-family scrapbooks.

He left the box he'd labeled "Charity" on Mycroft's desk to let his minions take care of the dreaded "leg work," and and headed to the library, strolling over to the set of shelves in the rear corner of the room which contained the scrapbooks he'd remembered.

He was pretty sure he hadn't been meant to ever notice the books tucked away on the bottom shelf, but he'd once knocked the wonderfully heavy pen Mycroft had given him for his last birthday off of the room's table and it had rolled over into that corner. Floors in houses this old tended to have all sorts of odd warps and slopes, and, apparently, this room sloped towards the scrapbook area.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Lestrade dropped down to sit on the floor and pulled out a few of the albums. The first was obviously dedicated to 19th and early 20th century Holmeses, gray and unsmiling like most photos of that time, and the next album seemed to cover the "War Years." But it was the third album that he pulled that really caught Greg's interest.

This seemed to be a scrapbook kept personally by Mycroft's mother. He browsed through the first few pages of young and smiling Mummy and Daddy in front of the "country house," photos with other couples in evening clothes at extravagantly posh parties. He turned the page to find pictures of a glowingly pregnant Mrs. Holmes and snapshots of a pudgy, smiling baby who had to be Mycroft. The next few pages found a toddling Mycroft and studio portraits in the mandatory sailor suit. Further on started the primary and secondary school photos showing the progression of Mycroft from child to adolescent.

Throughout the years Mycroft had kept what he was sure Mummy had referred to as his baby fat. Ah, here was the reason behind so many of the jibes Sherlock hurled at Mycroft about his weight problem. Well, Sherlock was an ass and Greg mentally cringed when he thought of the teasing the slightly chubby, astoundingly intelligent, fussily particular child must have endured. But, to Greg's loving eyes, the young, rounded, open face and pleasingly soft pre-pubescent body stoked a pleasant warmth in his chest. To Greg, Mycroft had been...no other word for it...Mycroft had been adorable. Greg turned the page expecting to see sixth form photos and university snaps showing an increasingly svelte young man, features honing into those more closely approaching those his love sported today.

Therefore, he could perhaps be forgiven for the audible gasp he gave as the page settled. He could not have been more wrong. Photos from sixth form showed a Mycroft that had decidedly NOT started losing his adolescent plumpness. Indeed, this Mycroft was more what his own mother would have kindly described as stout. Hunching further over the album in his lap, Greg was positively riveted by the photos from the last few pages that featured what must have been Mycroft's university years.

There were no more formal portraits, only informal snaps with various family and friends with a visibly uncomfortable Mycroft gritting his teeth and giving what Greg knew to be his fakest smile. By the time these photos were taken Mycroft had moved into the realm of true corpulence. The overall effect was made only worse by the fact that the rest of the Holmes family tended toward the opposite end of the size spectrum. The few shots with the whole family resembled nothing so much as a still-life of three string-beans and a pin-striped pumpkin.

Greg leaned in even closer to the photos, gazing at them dreamily and giving in to an instinctive need to touch them by gently petting his fingers around the edges. Inspecting Mycroft's stiffly smiling face, Greg noticed that it had conversely gotten only rounder with the onset of adulthood. Slimmed down as he was now, Mycroft still didn't have the sharpness of feature of his brother; but in these photos, in the past, there was a fulsomeness to the face that made Greg's breath catch. His eyes appeared deeper set and any definition to his chin was hidden under double rolls of fat. Surveying down the body, Greg noted that the clothes were all cut to fit, so there were no straining waistcoat buttons, no fat oozing over a constricting collar. Nonetheless, even the excellent tailoring couldn't hide the sheer girth of the man. Greg knew that the skeletal frame was the same, but the extra weight made it seem as if Mycroft was broader through the shoulders. And, God, but did Greg Lestrade love a set of broad shoulders.

Greg knew Mycroft's hands to be dexterous and fine-boned, but in the photos they too looked broader and thicker. There were dimples over the knuckles on the back of the hand, fat rising around the knobby bones leaving four visible divots over each joint. Greg couldn't see the palms themselves, but he wondered if they too would look different, fleshier. Would they feel damp? Sticky even? He thought they might. He shifted his attention to the fingers, unintentionally memorizing their length and robust thickness.

Greg was surprised by the sheer immensity of this Mycroft, but he was absolutely mesmerized by the voluptuousness of the man. He knew that, in private, Mycroft could be gentle and even vulnerable at times, but never could he have imagined this luxurious softness. He wanted to caress it, feel the warmth of it, feel the burn in his arms and shoulders that fully embracing this man would cause.

He was unsure of how long he actually sat there gazing at photos and daydreaming about this unknown Mycroft before he became aware of his own body's rather visceral reaction. The warmth that the photos of child-Mycroft had stoked in his chest had descended south of his waistline in reaction to photos of university-Mycroft. Greg found himself in the middle of the library floor with a hard-on the likes of which his body hadn't achieved in decades and wondered what in the ever-loving fuck was happening.

Snapping out of his fugue,he slapped the photo book closed and hastily put it back on the shelf. He did not run upstairs to the toilet, he just walked rather swiftly, if a bit awkwardly due to the now nearly painful erection he was sporting. He slammed the door and leaned heavily back against it. Staring down at the front of his pants, he realized that he was chanting "What the fuck?" in a slightly breathless voice.

"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

At this point he had moved over to the sink and splashed his face with some cool water. Drying with a hand-towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He noticed that his chest was heaving and that his pupils were blown wide with what he guiltily refused to acknowledge as overwhelming desire. He was as aroused as he could ever remember feeling and he was absolutely sick over it.

But why? He'd had a shock to be sure, he'd never really ogled anyone's fat before. But that wasn't really it. Besides, he had a pretty good suspicion that his arousal was focused specifically on fat Mycroft, not fat men in general. Trying to ignore his lust so he could think for a moment, he was suddenly quite certain that Mycroft Holmes hadn't ever wanted Gregory Lestrade to see those photos. Knew down to his bones that Mycroft would be mortally humiliated at the thought of Greg ever having opened that album.

"How he must have hated it," thought Greg, thinking of the initial reluctance Mycroft had show to sharing his body with Greg. He'd simply chalked it up to a lack of confidence in the sex arena. The man was usually busy running the country, it wasn't surprising that he hadn't had much time for romance. But now he wondered if there wasn't a deeper reason for Mycroft to have ignored the needs of his body for so long. Greg wondered if what he'd thought was simply Mycroft's shyness was instead some form of distaste.

He knew from personal experience that any visible loss of control was beyond difficult for Mycroft. It had taken months of patience and gentle coaxing on Greg's part to finally get the man into bed. It had taken an even longer period of constant encouragement to get the man to finally really let go in their bed. Oh, it had been worth every moment. Two years into their relationship, Mycroft was now a fairly confident and surprisingly playful lover. But that was only for Greg. No, it wouldn't be any sense of vanity that would cause Mycroft mortification over Greg seeing those pictures; no, it would be that Mycroft associated his own obesity with a lack of control. And he knew Mycroft was not ready to share that struggle with Greg.

And suddenly a lot of other things started to make sense. The same breakfast everyday, the regimented dinner times, even the skill in the kitchen. What Greg had just assumed was fussiness and typical efficiency were in actuality Mycroft's arsenal. They were his iron-hand exerting control over his own body. The man saw his own body as an errant adversary who must be constantly contained.

That was why Greg was so instinctively panicked. Knowing Greg had seen the photographs would be bad enough, but Mycroft would be devastated by Greg's arousal. If fat Mycroft was his Mycroft's arch-nemesis, then Greg's attraction would be the ultimate betrayal. He couldn't even bear the thought, hating the idea of giving Mycroft another reason to feel at odds with his own body.

The problem was, though, that the arousal wasn't going away. His mind, his instincts, knew this wasn't right, but his body didn't seem to care. He'd opened Pandora's Box, and it was too late to shut it back.

He closed his eyes in defeat and perfectly recalled a photo of Mycroft in black-tie standing next to an elegantly dressed Mummy under a banner that read "Happy New Year! 1987." It was the first picture in the album of a truly, ponderously fat Mycroft. He felt his cock twitch in his pants, and his eyes flew back open.

"Shit Shit Shit!" Giving into the inevitable, he undid his jeans and pulled them down with his boxers. He glanced down at the near-purple head of his cock and the copious precome oozing out of the slit. His eyes drifted shut and image after image of Mycroft, beginning with that first photo and continuing through to the end of the scrapbook flitted through his mind. It was like a flip-book of images making a movie in Greg's mind of a steadily inflating Mycroft. He thought about how those clammy, soft hands would feel on his skin, feel running across his chest. He thought about those podgy fingers touching his face, skimming the nape of his neck, pinching and twisting his nipples. He thought about a moist palm and thick fingers wrapping around his cock while he kissed Mycroft's lips and squeezed his own fingers into those doughy shoulders.

Drowning in these thoughts, Greg licked his palm twice to make it good and moist, then took himself in hand, swirling around the head to gather the precome to use as further lubricant. He stilled his hand and started thrusting into his closed fist until he felt the muscles in his thighs trembling. He spit into his other hand and slid it back through the opening in his pants to palm at his sack. Pushing into one slick hand and rolling his saliva-covered balls with the other, he started to lose his rhythm. He began stroking with his hand again, giving a little squeeze each time he reached the spongy head. Feeling the burn of orgasm starting low in his abdomen, he brought his other hand away from his tightening sack and used it to fondle the head and finger his slit while his other hand slid up and down the shaft in almost a blur. Eyes screwed shut and panting for breath, he finally came with a shout and shot thick ropes of come all over the bathroom vanity, the images of meaty Mycroft still burning in his retinas.

He leaned on the vanity until he caught his breath, cleaned himself off, and rezipped his jeans. He washed his hands then found cleaner and paper towels in the cabinet under the sink and briskly cleaned all the come off the sink and faucet, even the bit that had splashed onto the bottom of the mirror. Greg then did did what he thought any red-blooded male in his position would do: he headed to the liquor cabinet in the den, grabbed a bottle of Scotch, turned the telly as loud as he could stand, and proceeded to get drunk off his arse.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg awoke the next morning with a well-earned hangover. He managed to stumble into the kitchen to swallow down some aspirin, then crashed back onto the sofa. When he re-awoke it was dark outside and he heard footsteps padding around upstairs. He stood up slowly and, when he was sure of his footing, headed upstairs for a shower. As he reached the top of the stairs he saw Mycroft emerging from their bedroom.

"It's alive," Mycroft jokingly exclaimed. "I hope you haven't come up here after my BRAAAIIINNNSS!"

"Zombie jokes. Very original," Greg replied as he moved towards their room and the shower. Mycroft waited for him to approach and pulled Greg into a lose embrace with his arms around his waist.

"Oh, bad idea, love. I haven't showered since God knows when. I must smell like death."

"Mmmhmm. Well, zombies are technically dead aren't they? So, it just stands to reason. Regardless, I just wanted to hold you for a moment. I missed you."

As intended, any thought Greg had to resisting Mycroft, even if it was for the man's own good, went out the window. He brought his arms snugly around the other man's waist as Mycroft's arms came up around his shoulders. They stood there like that, swaying slightly in the low light of the hallway until the moment was broken by the rumbling of Mycroft's stomach.

"Hungry? It must be 6:55," Gregory murmured, spine unconsciously stiffening, now on high alert as to Mycroft's eating patterns.

"How very droll, but very wrong," Mycroft huffed in Greg's ear. And even though the subject was a little raw for Greg, he couldn't help but give a chuckle as the monstrous clock downstairs started chiming seven.

"Well, you were wrong. It clearly is not 6:55, Gregory." Greg just laughed harder. Thinking about Mycroft and food so soon after... well, after yesterday had started a twisting of tension deep in his gut. But as they stood there laughing in their upstairs hall, Greg felt it slowly start to uncoil.

"Go on you. Go eat while I take a shower. You can have the pleasure of watching me stuff my face when I'm done. I haven't eaten since yesterday."

Mycroft puffed out a gust of air and actually blushed a bit when Greg smacked him on the ass as he passed by. Pausing at the stop of the stairs he asked, "Are you by any chance still drunk?"

"Nope," Greg raised his voice as by this time he was already in the bedroom. "No, just a little relieved," more quietly, mostly to himself.

As he stood under the shower, he realized how true that was. He loved that man downstairs, loved him just as he was. He had no intention of trying to change him. Yes, it pained him to know the reason behind some of Mycroft's regimentation, but Greg was old enough to know that everyone coped in their own way. We all carried our own little scars, Mycroft was no exception. Though the lover in Greg wished he could heal those scars, the grown man knew that wasn't how life worked. Mycroft hadn't shared this with him and certainly hadn't asked for any kind of help. Hell, Mycroft probably didn't even think it was something that needed helping.

And, honestly, perhaps it didn't. Greg was aware that he and Mycroft were both stupidly happy with how things stood between them, and their brief reunion in the hall was proof enough to Greg that nothing had really changed that. He may have a new awareness as to Mycroft's behavior, but that was it. He was overreacting to this whole thing. So what if he'd had some sort of weird sexual fantasy about his own partner? It was just that, a fantasy. More importantly, Mycroft need never know about it. Gregory would never mention having seen those pictures, never openly acknowledge that he had completed another little piece of the puzzle that was Mycroft Holmes.

God knew he would certainly never mention his own reaction to those photos. He'd heard Sherlock mention his ability to delete information from his mind. Greg wasn't exactly capable of that, but he was as good at denial and avoidance as any other member of his gender. He would lock this away as far and as deep as possible and pray that was enough to keep a Holmes from noticing this one damned thing. He would not allow Mycroft to be hurt by this, end of story.

Ten minutes later, heading down to his evening meal with a lighter step and a resolute mind, he smelled what was sure to be a perfectly cooked steak. He felt himself smiling as he went to join Mycroft at the table.

And Greg's plan even seemed to work for two whole months. The second Monday in October found him investigating a burglary in Holland Park that turned out to be one of a string that continued every night for the next week. Pressure from on high made him come very close to requesting Sherlock's help on the matter more than once, but as he'd already received three texted warnings not to request his help on something so banal, he resisted the urge. In the meantime, he reminded himself that he was no slouch in the mystery-solving department, regardless of what Sherlock thought, and worked himself and his team nearly nonstop. They'd finally caught a break on Wednesday of the following week, and, two days later, the culprits were in cuffs and most of the stolen items were recovered.

After all the paperwork was finished, Donovan asked him round for a pint with some of the other members of the team. He declined on grounds that he was just too knackered. Donovan's understanding pity made him feel about a hundred years old, but he was glad nonetheless to be headed home rather than down the pub. He stepped out into the brisk autumn night just to realize he was completely under dressed for the walk to the bus stop, for once slightly regretting his continued refusal to use Mycroft's car and driver. "Well, nothing for it," he thought as flipped up his suit collar and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He'd walked about half a block before he noticed the large black car pull up to the kerb beside him. He felt nothing but relief as the door was pushed open, and he quickly slipped into the back of the luxuriously warm car.

"Have I told you recently that I love your omniscience?"

"No you haven't. But it's not neccessary."

"Because you already know," Greg laughed.

"Just so. You're cold. Come here," Mycroft urged as he held his arms open for Greg to slide into his embrace. The invitation made Greg notice that the privacy partition separating them from the driver was firmly closed.

"God, I am cold," he admitted as he settled into Mycroft's arms. Soothed by the smooth movement of the car and warmth seeping into his bones, he felt his body slowly relax. His exhausted mind set off to float as he cuddled with his boyfriend in the backseat of his car. Thinking about it in those terms he was vaguely reminded of a few other close embraces he'd shared in the backseats of cars. He amused himself wondering if Mycroft was going to try to get a leg over. Punch-drunk with exhaustion, Greg would probably let him. It'd been years since he'd done a bit of heavy petting in the backseat.

Easing deeper into the embrace, he wondered if Mycroft had any such memories. They'd never really shared much about any past romances, but he had a hard time believing a teenage Mycroft had ever tried to get lucky in the backseat of his father's car. In fact, Greg was reasonably certain that any time Mycroft had spent in the backseat of a car had been accompanied by the family driver in the front seat. No foggy windows for Mycroft then. But surely there had been some youthful experimentation somewhere else, at uni maybe. He tried to picture an awkward, young Mycroft fumbling with some poor girl's bra clasp...scratch that, more likely some chap's shirt buttons.

Looking back on it later, Greg would blame the weakness of his mental walls on the exhaustion. But for whatever reason, that thought, the thought of Mycroft fumbling in the dark, timidly exploring the world of sexuality in his uni dorm with some other young man...it was like a spark setting alight a fuse in Greg's mind. And that fuse reached deep. Far, far down into that small dark place where he'd locked away all other thoughts of Mycroft at that age. And just like that, it was like he was back in that library reveling, wallowing in the only preserved physical evidence of Mycroft's university days. His mind that he'd thought too tired to properly function was suddenly an explosion, the fuse burned down. And Gregory was lost. Lost in thoughts of that Mycroft getting off with some other young man. Lost in imagining Mycroft's pudgy fingers clumsily undoing shirt buttons to slide a hand in to caress a firm chest. He pictured a tan, roughened hand slide up under Holmes' own shirt to stroke and squeeze his fleshy belly. He could see a dark head nuzzling into the damp, roly neck, licking and kissing at the doubled chin. And Greg realized his brain, the goddamned traitor, had imagined his own youthful self into that dark dorm room petting session with Mycroft, the two of them pressed together to fit on a bed that was nearly too small for just the one of them, touching and rutting against each other. Gregory moving on top to press into the larger man, get better access to acres of skin. It was devestating.

His breath sped up and his cock sprang to attention in record time. He felt his partner's sharp intake of breath and knew Mycroft had noticed. The damn man never missed a trick. Too tired to resist his own body, seeking refuge from his own mind, Greg squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into present-day Mycroft's neck. He stupidly took in a deep breath through his nose and felt himself grow impossibly harder at the scent. Quite simply, he was undone.

"Gregory," Mycroft exhaled, and quickly sucked the air back in when Greg licked a stripe up the side of his neck, "what are you doing?"

"Need you, oh God, need you," was all he could choke out.

"Oh. Well. Carry on then." And then Mycroft once again proved his ability to calmly and competently handle any situation by cupping his hand around the bulge in Greg's trousers and squeezing.

"God," Greg wheezed, "do that again," as he licked under Mycroft's collar and started loosening the man's tie. He needed to get his lips under that collar NOW.

As he started frantically unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt and pushing his tongue down as far as he could to taste and kiss the top of his collarbone, he felt the other man's hand move to undo Greg's buckle and open his trousers. The grown Mycroft clearly wasn't a fumbler. Thank fuck for those sure hands because Greg's cock was weeping for their touch. He felt one of those hands slip under the band of his boxers to grip his shaft, and, in the dark, it was so easy to picture that hand with sausagy fingers, dimpled knuckles, sweaty palm. Greg slid his right hand around to Mycroft's ass and felt bereft that there was so little to there to grip. He wanted to squeeze, he wanted to knead, he wanted to sink himself into fullness, push his hips into mounds of lush softness as he buried his cock balls-deep into the ass his imagination conjured.

He felt Mycroft's hand on his cock moving swiftly but steadily. The man had gathered the liquid steadily oozing from the slit to smooth his hand's movements. Greg's left hand had moved up and around to the nape of Mycroft's neck. He was rubbing his fingers along the skin there, enjoying the sensation of the short hairs brushing his fingertips. He wanted harder pressure around his shaft, and he tightened his grip on Mycroft's nape, perhaps in unconscious suggestion. Mycroft seemed to get the hint and tightened his fist around Greg's twitching erection. He added a twisting motion to his stroke which brushed his thumb against the sensitive frenulum over and over. They'd been at this for over two years now, and Mycroft had perfected every step of this dance. Greg felt lips dip down to ghost over his ear and he shivered in pleasure. A sinuous tongue snaked out to dip into the whorls of his ear, to lick along the top curve, to gently taste the sensitive skin just behind. So close from the gripping and twisting and pulling sure hand on his cock and handfuls of pale flesh on his mind, he tipped over into climax when he felt those lips close around his earlobe and suck...hard. He came and came and came, the world behind his eyelids gone white and stifling a scream in Mycroft's neck.

He slumped there, dazed and breathless, struggling to recover as Mycroft produced a handkerchief and quickly cleaned them up as best he could. He tucked Greg back into his pants and trousers and zipped him up before buttoning his own shirt and tightening his tie. He finished just as the car rolled to a stop in front of their home. Mycroft opened the door himself and helped Gregory out, waiving off the driver for the night and hoping he didn't notice his passengers' disheveled appearance.

He felt Mycroft pushing him through the front doors, hustling him upstairs, ignoring Greg's pathetically slurred offers to suck him off or at least bring him off with his hands. Too stupid from exhaustion and orgasm to even undress, he did his best to just remain upright as Mycroft managed to strip him down to his boxers and wrangle Greg into bed. And the last muzzy thought Gregory Lestrade had before he fell into blissful oblivion was that Pandora was a stupid bitch and that he was well and truly fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg woke late the next morning. He could tell by the light pouring in from the window that it was gone eleven. He lay there in a heap as bits and pieces of the night before came together in his mind. He was such a fucking idiot. How could he have let himself go like that? He'd really thought he'd managed to get over his little obsession with those damn pictures. Clearly, he'd been deluding himself. The real question though, was had he been deluding Mycroft?

He seriously doubted it. Mycroft had made a study of Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft knew him in a way no other person had ever known him. Probably knew him better than he did himself. That's what was worrying him.

And last night had been out of character, for sure. Oh, they had a more than healthy sex-life, but he'd never attacked the man like that. Never just jumped his bones, even when they'd been new together. There wasn't a chance in hell that Mycroft wasn't going to pick up on that. Looking at the clock he confirmed it was about 11:30. Thank God he'd have several hours to think about how to deal with this before Mycroft got home.

He roused up, showered, and headed down for breakfast. Walking past the study door on his way to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. Mycroft was sitting on the sofa reading the paper.

"What are you doing here?"

Mycroft ignored him a moment while he finished whatever he'd been reading and then folded the paper closed. "Here in this house or here in this room?"

"Either. Both. Why aren't you at work?" Mycroft did not miss work. Mycroft missing work might be a sign of the apocolypse.

"It's Saturday, Gregory."

Oh! Greg felt relieved for a moment that the world wasn't ending. But then he got a good look at Mycroft's face. The relief might have been premature.

Mycroft just sat there looking at him. That look that made him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. He really didn't want to do this on an empty stomach. Maybe he could just head to the kitchen and play dumb. Right now dumb didn't feel like such a stretch. As he opened his mouth to make a joke about not knowing the day of the week, make an attempt to maneuver to the kitchen and avoid talking about last night, the other man beat him to the punch.

"Do you want to tell me what last night was about?" Mycroft asked. Very calmly. Almost casually.

So much for getting away. That didn't mean he wasn't still going to try to avoid this. He could do casual, too.

"Uhm, I think it was pretty clear what it was about. I've barely seen you for two weeks, My. I'm not used to doing without." Greg smiled. He hoped it wasn't as sickly as it felt, but gauging by Mycroft's reaction, he wasn't getting his wish. Apparently a bit of eyebrow wagging wasn't going to get him out of this.

"You're hiding something from me, Gregory."

"What?" Only it was more like "Wh-ha-ha-t?" because it came out on a nervous laugh. Shit.

Mycroft dipped his head, peered up at him a bit through his lashes. Coy on anyone else, on Mycroft it was actually a warning. Greg just swallowed, hoped to hell it hadn't actually sounded as loud as it did in his head. Mycroft pursed his lips a bit and raised one eyebrow. Greg knew that look, too. It was the, "Are you sure you want to do this? Because you've got about three seconds before I begin the verbal evisceration. 3...2...." Greg blinked, did his best not to cringe, and braced for the barrage.

"Last month I came home to find you passed out on the sofa having ingested an entire bottle of Glenfiddich. You are normally a very moderate drinker. Which leads me to question, why? Why would you behave so out of character? Discounting simple boredom, men of your type usually indulge to 'drink your worries away.'

"So, you were upset. You were not called-in to work that day which eliminates disturbance of a professional nature. Which means it was a personal matter. As the issue appeared to have resolved itself by the next evening, I decided to not to pursue the matter. Leave well enough alone. But that's wrong isn't it? Because things aren't 'well enough' are they?

"Over the last 7 weeks we have sat together to breakfast some 61 times and at 68 percent of those meals you have questioned my food choices." Percentages from Mycroft were never a good thing. Percentages were a big, red siren. Shit, shit.

"Look, I just think it's weird that you eat the same thing every day. You have to be sick of it, My." And, oh, wasn't that a mistake? A Holmes never liked to be interrupted when on a roll at the best of times. But such a blatantly defensive lie, well that was just stupid. Mycroft's head came up with his gaze. Scenting blood in the water. Greg knew the damn gulp he gave then was audible next-door.

Like Greg hadn't spoken, Mycroft continued, "In addition, we have consumed 53 evening meals together over that same period. At various times you have questioned the caloric content of those meals, my daily consumption of protein, my choice of sweetener in my tea, my preference in milk, and my choice of pudding."

"Fruit isn't pudding, Mycroft," Greg interrupted. Shit, shit, shit.

Mycroft's gaze narrowed and his voice dropped, "More importantly, Gregory, I have noticed a certain reluctance to engage in our normal... intimacies."

Bad idea or not, he refused to keep his peace about that one. "That is not true. It isn't. It's a wonder we manage as much as we do, what with our schedules. It's not a matter of reluctance, Mycroft, it's a matter of time and energy. Besides, I think I'd have noticed if we hadn't had sex in two months."

"We have, of course, had sexual relations, Gregory. However, the frequency of those relations has decreased by 34 percent." Did the man keep a diary?

 

"Jesus, do you keep a diary? We've both been BUSY, Mycroft." Anger was creeping into his voice now. This was not going well. Not at all.

"We have managed fifty-three evenings together in seven weeks. Of those 53 evenings we have engaged in relations 30 times which is a decrease of roughly 38.5 percent from our norm. And, no, I do not keep a diary. I happen to remember each and every occasion we make love, Gregory. I remember everything that is important.

"So, I have determined that something clearly is wrong. The problem is determining what exactly that something is. I know of no way other than subterfuge and covert surveillance to gather any more evidence to help me reach an answer, but I have promised not to operate that way within our relationship. I suppose, then, I'll just be direct. What is going on, Gregory?"

And all Greg could think was, "Fuck my life." He was overwhelmed by the flood of information Mycroft had just unloaded. He truly hadn't realized how he'd been behaving. A sick roiling was gathering in the pit of his stomach. Because, no matter what he said, Mycroft had most definitely come to some sort of conclusion about what was going on. He was just unsure enough of that conclusion to give Gregory the benefit of the doubt. He was giving Greg a chance to prove him wrong or dig his own hole. He fucking hated that man's brain sometimes. He needed to buy some time to think for damn minute, so he went with a classic: answer a question with another question.

"What do you think is going on?" And that got him a reaction. Just not the one he'd expected. He thought he'd get the exasperated sigh, maybe a bit of a lecture on how annoying it was to answer one question with another. Instead he got a dropped head, hunched shoulders, and a bit of a squirm. Like Mycroft was trying to make himself as small as possible. What the hell?

"I found your family album in the library, Gregory. And though I have no proof, the obvious deduction is that you gave into your natural curiosity and looked through my own family albums while there. Based on the aberration in behavior, I presume that perusal coincides with the day of your extreme drunkenness. Yes?" Greg's whole body coiled into a tight knot.

"Yeah. Yes." This was no time to lie. First, he'd never get away with it. Second, he was quickly realizing he was on a minefield now where one false step could destroy everything. That meant it was time for him to stop dancing around the truth. "I didn't know, Mycroft. I didn't know what was in there until I'd already seen them. It was too late then. I knew you wouldn't like it that I'd seen them."

"How?"

"How what?"

With a sigh, "How did you know I would not want you to see them?" The "you idiot" was clearly implied.

"Mycroft..." was all he got out. His mouth just opened and closed like a fish. He honestly didn't know how to answer. How to say what he meant without hurting the man's feelings any more.

But apparently the silence was answer enough. Mycroft nodded as if in agreement and said, "Yes. Well then." He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter while Greg still gawped.

"I suppose that leads us to the bigger question. What do you intend to do now?"

Now Greg was just plain lost. Mycroft's mind had jumped ahead three spaces and Greg was still on the starting line. "I don't know what the hell is going on here, Mycroft. I don't know what you mean."

Which earned him a whithering glare. He hadn't been on the receiving end of one of those for quite sometime. It felt like a punch to his gut.

Mycroft turned away from him, cleared his throat. Took a deep breath like he was mustering his resolve, trying to regain his control, gather his dignity. He turned and met Greg's eyes, face pinched like it physically hurt him to do so, then calmly said, "Please don't make this any more difficult, Gregory. You know precisely what I mean. When are you planning to leave?"


	4. Chapter 4

"WHAT? "WHAT?!? Jesus, I knew you'd be upset, but I didn't think you'd kick me to the fucking curb, Mycroft." He was yelling now, frustrated and afraid.

"I'm not kicking you to the curb, I am allowing you a graceful exit. I am simply trying to-" Voice breaking on the last word, he swallowed twice before he could continue, "I am trying to handle this as efficiently as possible."

Greg couldn't breath. His lungs and his heart literally stuttered in his chest. But some distant part of his brain kept functioning. The lizard part of his brain lit up and his fight or flight response kicked in. And Gregory Lestrade had never run from a fight in his life. "Fuck that," he thought. And he said, "Fuck that, Mycroft. Fuck your damn efficiency. I'm not going anywhere."

Completely missing the point, Mycroft asserted, "This is my house, Gregory. It's been in my family for generations. I am willing to give you time...."

"Just shut up, Mycroft. Just stop for a minute. Jesus Christ! Look, nobody is going anywhere. Fuck." He forced himself to stop for minute, too. Forced air in and out of his constricted lungs, forced his brain to try some higher functioning. Deliberately lowering his voice, trying for a calmer tone, he said, "I think maybe we're talking at cross-purposes here. Do you want me to move out?" The question burnt his throat on the way out.

He watched Mycroft think about it. Felt himself teetering on an edge somewhere in the man's mind. Finally, "No. No, I do not. But, neither do I wish to keep you here if it's not what you want."

Head swimming with relief, Greg choked out, "I want to be here, Mycroft. I want that very much. How could you think that I would ever leave you?”

Greg stopped thinking about his own fear for a moment and really looked at the other man. He saw the expected hurt and fear and doubt flickering in his eyes. But he saw something else that he rarely saw on his lover: anger. Mycroft had apparently used up all of his emotional energy trying to be noble, and now he couldn't fight it anymore. Couldn't fight the angry beast that was clawing its way out. "Because I know you saw those photos of me and now you're obsessed with my diet and you've barely touched me in weeks unless you're delirious with exhaustion! You're clearly disgusted by the thought of how I used to be and are afraid that I'll turn back into... back into...THAT!" He spat the last word out, like he was talking about some disgusting worm, some horrible monster, and not his own self.

Greg didn't think his heart could take much more of this. It was breaking for this man, for what his lover thought of himself. And there were actually tears glinting in Mycroft's eyes. Greg felt nausea welling at the sight and thought, "Fix this, fix this, fix this."

"Oh, oh love. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But you're wrong, Mycroft. You couldn't possibly be more wrong."

At that, Mycroft shot out of his seat. Turned to stand facing Gregory, and shouted, actually shouted, "Wrong about what? I don't understand what the fuck is going on here."

Greg was completely shocked at the language, so unlike Mycroft. But the man was raw. Greg wanted to go to him, touch him, reach out and offer the comfort of his arms. But some instinct stopped him. Mycroft had the look of a wounded animal about him, which meant he was dangerous. Greg knew there was only one way to handle this. "The truth now,” he thought, "all of it. And gently, gently."

He held his hands out in a placating gesture. Stood on weak knees to come level with his red-faced lover. "Here's the whole truth. The whole sordid thing. You're right, I did see the albums that day. But you're wrong, too, Mycroft. You don't know what I thought when I saw those pictures of you. You don't know what they did to me."

"I think I have a fair idea...."

"NO. No. You. Don't. I wasn't disgusted by those pictures. I don't...I...DAMMIT!" And they both flinched. So much for gentle. It just wasn't going to happen. Gregory Lestrade was at heart a blunt man, and blunt was just going to have to do.

"You know what? Here it is. I opened up that album and looked at those pictures of you and my cock got so hard so fast it hurt. I sat there with that album in my hands touching and stroking those pictures, wishing I could get my hands on the you I saw there. I went upstairs and jerked-off and came all over the bathroom sink to the thought of burying myself in the you I saw in those pictures. I wasn't disgusted, you idiot, I was turned on."

Mycroft went completely still, just staring at him. Speechless. Greg feared for a moment that he'd somehow broken the man. He stood there like that so long that Greg finally waived his hand in front of the other man's face, said, "Hello? Mycroft?"

At that, Mycroft finally blinked. Actually shook his head like a dazed animal. Then pinned Gregory with a flashing glare and asked, "Then why didn't you tell me?" And that was really the core of the matter, wasn't it? Greg didn't know how to explain it when he didn't wholly understand it himself. But he had to try.

"I didn't tell you because I was afraid. I think I had like an epiphany or something sitting there with those pictures. You...you hated yourself then Mycroft. You hated your body, and I knew you'd be embarrassed at the thought of me seeing it. And I knew that you'd hate me for being so aroused by it."

"So all the questions about my meals, you weren't concerned about me breaking my diet?"

"No, no. I didn't even realize I was doing that. It's not that I care what you eat, it's that you care so damn much. It's about you being so careful about every single bite that goes into your mouth. I hate that.”

“Because you're aroused by my being overweight?”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I was aroused by the bigger you in those pictures. But that's not why I hate your diet.”

“I don't...it isn't really...I- I am lost here, Gregory."

"Well, join the club."

"You like me fat?"

"I think that may be an oversimplification." Which earned him a “don't bullshit a bullshitter” look. He found he liked giving that look far better than the receiving. “Okay, yes. Yes, I am sexually aroused by the thought of you being...larger.”

"But then why were you attracted to me in the first place? I've been the same weight the entire time you've known me."

“Well, corny as it sounds, I was attracted to your mind first. Look, all I know is that it's you, Mycroft. It's like the you in those pictures, that's the real you. That's what you'd be like if you weren't always imposing your will on yourself. And I want that, want you to be like that. Want to touch you and feel you and see you free from your own damn control.” He stopped and thought about his own words for a moment. “I guess that's the heart of it really. That it's not just about what gets me hard, it's not just about sex. It's about wanting you to give into yourself a little bit, Mycroft. You deserve that. You should be able to have that now. Have that freedom with me."

Greg watched him mull that over. Watched the wheels turning, saw the little furrow between his brows that indicated he was in deep thought.

"I...I don't know if such a thing is even possible, Gregory. I don't know if I'm able to half-control it, able to give in just a little."

"Then don't Mycroft. It doesn't matter if you put on weight or lose 10 pounds. I've been gagging for you for two years, Mycroft Holmes, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. If there is one thing I am absolutely sure of it's that I want you. I want you however I can get you."

"So let me get this straight, you like me fat but you don't want me to change?"

"Exactly."

"That is utterly ridiculous, Gregory. It's a total contradiction."

"No, it isn't. I like you as you are now, I'll always like you. You need to know that. But you also need to know that if you slip, if you fucking give up and go swim in pudding, I'll still like you. I'll still love you. And, I'll still want you. You deserve nothing less than that, but I don't think you've ever had it. But you do now."

"No, I don't think I have ever had that," he admitted with a bit of wonder in his voice. "And you're right. I hated being like that. Not that I cared how I looked. That never really mattered to me. In school, I never had time for romance. Besides, there are always those who will be drawn to anyone with enough money or influence. I suppose I knew I could always rely upon that should the issue arise. But I hated the...the weakness of it. I hated that Mummy counted every biscuit I put in my mouth and that Daddy thought I should take up squash or cricket. I hated when my colleagues at work began making jokes about me throwing my weight around. I hated that I always ate alone because I didn't want to see the scorn in anyone else's eyes. I hated that everything else I was doing, was becoming, was overshadowed by that one weakness."

"But it's okay to have a weakness, Mycroft. And it's okay to give into that weakness sometimes. It's a part of who you are. And I love that part just as much as every other part of you. Maybe sometimes I need to see a little weakness in you. Need a reminder that you're a real, normal, flesh and blood man that I can have and hold. Being human is nothing to be ashamed of.”

"No. I suppose it's not. But I need to think about this. I need to...to assimilate all this, Gregory. I was expecting us to end today. I've been trying to prepare for that, but I don't really know what to do with this."

"Okay. I get that. Take all the time you need. I've said my piece, and as long as you can assimilate the fact that I'm not leaving you for the rest of your life no matter what happens, I'll be okay with anything else." With that he finally took a step towards the man, held up his hand to cup his cheek. Reminding himself again that Mycroft was really here, really his to touch, that he wasn't going to lose this.

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He licked his lips and whispered, "Gregory, the thought of losing you... I don't know what I would've done with myself. I was going to let you go, but I...I don't know-"

"Don't. Don't ever think that again. I mean it Mycroft Holmes, you're never getting rid of me."

Greg lifted his other hand to Mycroft's face and pulled him into a kiss. A gentle one, just laying his mouth against the other's. Breathing in each other's breath until he heard a strangled groan coming from Mycroft's chest, felt hands grabbing and twisting his shirt into fists, and finally felt the wetness of tears on his thumbs. He pulled back, but Mycroft still had his eyes shut, was pulling him back in with the grip on his shirt.

"Mycroft?"

"I need you. I need you right now, Gregory."

"Okay, okay. You've got me. Just tell me what to do."With that, Mycroft stopped pulling and began pushing. Pushed Greg back to the sofa till it hit the back of his knees and he fell back into the seat. Mycroft climbed on top of him, straddled his lap. Released the fistfuls of his shirt and gripped his fists in Greg's hair instead. Then he kissed him, hard. All teeth and tongue and wet. He finally came up for air and leaned forward to rub his damp cheek alongside Gregory's. He turned his head slightly. Brushed his lips against Greg's ear until the man shivered. Then he whispered, "I need you to show me, Gregory. I need you to show me just how much you really want me."


	5. Chapter 5

With that, Mycroft stopped pulling and began pushing. Pushed Greg back to the sofa till it hit the back of his knees and he fell back into the seat. Mycroft climbed on top of him, straddled his lap. Released the fistfuls of his shirt and gripped his fists in Greg's hair instead. Then he kissed him, hard. All teeth and tongue and wet. He finally came up for air and leaned forward to rub his damp cheek alongside Gregory's. He turned his head slightly. Brushed his lips against Greg's ear until the man shivered. Then he whispered, "I need you to show me, Gregory. I need you to show me how much you really want me."

"Oh, God," gasped Greg as he turned to catch Mycroft's lips. He rubbed their mouths together, trying to be gentle. He hadn't shaved in awhile and Mycroft had very sensitive skin. But Mycroft was having none of that. He used his hands still fisted in Greg's hair to pull him in harder. To crush their lips together, gnashing teeth and spreading wetness. Greg opened his mouth against the assault and Mycroft's tongue slipped in. Greg sucked it in further, continued sucking on it until he felt a moan stirring in Mycroft's chest. Greg quit sucking and began sliding his own tongue against Mycroft's. Sliding in and out of the other's mouth like he was fucking him already. And they were still pressed too hard against each other. Mycroft's bent elbows had come up and over Greg's shoulders so that he was pulling him in by the hair of his head and pulling his torso forward with his bent elbows that were resting a little below Greg's shoulders.

Mycroft was as close to frantic as he'd ever seen the man. He truly had been afraid, and he needed this now. Was demanding it with his body. Greg wrapped his own arms around Mycroft's waist and pulled the lower half of their torsos together. They were both already hard, and when their cocks settled together through their clothing, Mycroft gave a guttural groan and immediately began rocking. Greg slipped his hands down to his ass and pulled him closer, giving the man more pressure to rut against.

When their lips finally parted, they both gasped for air. Mycroft kept Greg's face close, rested their foreheads together so they were panting in each other's breath. They stayed that way for a few moments until Greg tipped his head forward and began kissing Mycroft's neck. Licking at his collar bone. Sucking and biting at every bit of skin he could reach. Normally, Mycroft would never allow this. Greg would never try. But both of them seemed to acknowledge that this was necessary now. The marks, the bruises were necessary reminders that they still had this, still had each other. That they'd been claimed and had accepted it, welcomed it.

The pushing and the biting and the rutting weren't going to be near enough though. So Greg brought one hand up behind Mycroft's head and pitched forward onto his knees on the floor. Greg's hand on his ass and behind his head cushioned Mycroft's short fall to the floor, but it had startled him. He'd released Greg's hair and lay on his back for a moment, stared up at Gregory kneeling between his legs.

Greg stared back, saw the red marks on his neck, saw their saliva glistening on his chin and swollen lips. And all he could say, all he could think was, "Mycroft." It came out as a growl, as a warning that Mycroft understood perfectly. He lifted up and slid his dark pullover off his body and threw it to the side then moved his hand down to work on the button and zip of his khakis. He scooted his body back out of the trousers and kicked them off to follow the shirt. Moving back like that gave him room to stretch out full length on the floor, his feet a few inches from the bottom skirt of the sofa.

Greg continued staring. Eyes devouring the pale skin, the thin trail of dark hair that started below his navel and disappeared into his pants. Mycroft finally lifted back up onto his elbows, locked eyes with Gregory, realized there was a fine tremor running through the man's body. Like there was some sort of low level electrical current surging underneath his skin. He seemed frozen in place, just trying to tame that current. But that was the exact opposite of what Mycroft wanted, what Mycroft needed.

So he brought his hands up to his stomach, ran them down to the band of his pants and hooked his thumbs there. Greg's eyes followed his every move as he pulled his pants up and over his erection then lifted his hips from the carpet to pull them all the way down. "Look at me, Gregory," he ordered. When Greg's eyes finally met his own he reached down to take hold of his erection and said, "I meant it, Gregory. I need you to show me. I need you to prove to me how much you want this. Want me. And I need you to show me now."

It was like those words had thrown a switch, completed some circuit within Gregory, and he was suddenly a live wire. He pulled his own tshirt off and slipped his sleep pants and his boxers down together around his knees. Then he tipped onto all fours with his hands on either side of Mycroft's hips. He took exactly two breaths over the head of the man's erection and then went down on him on one smooth move. Took in Mycroft's entire length so that his nose was buried in the dark hair there. So that he could only take in short shallow breaths. Breaths that were drenched with the scent of Mycroft, of his arousal.

Mycroft's arms gave out, and he fell back flat to the floor and closed his eyes. Greg began moving up and down his shaft, sucking and licking. Letting saliva and precum drip from his lips around Mycroft's shaft. He sucked until his cheeks hollowed. He gave a lick to the sensitive underside of the crown. He did all the things that he knew drove Mycroft absolutely mad until Mycroft grunted out a strangled, "Gregory," in warning.

With that, Greg pulled off of his cock with an audible pop and settled back on his knees again. He brought his hand up to Mycroft's dripping wet cock and began pumping it hard and fast. "I...I'm going to come, Gregory."

"Yes, you are. Right now. Come for me now." And he did. As the first spurt shot out, Greg brought his other hand up around the head and caught as much of Mycroft's come as he could. And as he was still milking the last drops from his cock, Greg said, "Lift your legs. Up. Up." When Mycroft complied, Greg pushed his come slick hand down between Mycroft's cheeks and began rubbing and pressing into his twitching hole.

"Ohhhh. Ohhh!" Greg didn't know if it was an exclamation of understanding or delight, and he didn't much care. He pushed in his finger and twisted it a bit. Then pulled it out, gathered more of the come that had pooled on Mycroft's stomach and pushed in another finger. He rotated his fingers inside until he found Mycroft's prostate and began to brush across it as he pushed in and out, scissoring his fingers every so often to stretch the man open. He added his ring finger and slid in and out a few more times.

He pulled his hand out, swiped up every bit of spit and come that was left on Mycroft and used it to slick his own cock. He put either hand behind Mycroft's knees and pushed until the man was nearly bent in half. Mycroft reached his hand around and grabbed Greg's shaft and guided to his entrance. When Greg felt the head of his cock breaching the first ring of muscle, he pushed all the way in in one fluid movement. He truly wasn't going to last much longer, there was no time for gradual anymore.

He took a brief moment to check that Mycroft was okay. When he saw the man's eyes screwed shut he paused, but then he saw the man's cock starting to fill again and realized they weren't screwed shut in pain. He took that as permission to move. He rocked his hips back and slammed back in. His thrust so hard that he pushed Mycroft back along the carpet. Had either of them been coherent they might have worried about rug burn on the man's back. As it was, Mycroft just threw his arm back and braced his hand against the brick hearth of the fireplace to stop his body from sliding further across the carpet. Greg used the additional leverage to pound into him even harder.

Mycroft's cock was fully hard again and flush against his abdomen, bobbing with each slap of Greg's hips against his ass. Greg could feel himself getting close, but couldn't release Mycroft's legs to get at the man's cock. Instead he ordered, "Touch yourself, Mycroft. That's it. God, that's it." And he watched as Mycroft jerked himself in time with his thrusts, back arched and body stretched to brace himself. It was the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen, and he was GONE. One more thrust, one more jerk and he was coming inside Mycroft harder than he ever had, and Mycroft was coming again, dripping over his own fingers onto his stomach.

They stayed in place several moments, twitching and shivering with the aftershock, until Greg realized how he still had Mycroft contorted in half. He took a breath and eased out and let Mycroft's feet settle back on the carpet, legs still bent at the knee as Greg knelt between them, settling back on his own heels. Mycroft finally let go of his cock and brought his other hand down from above his head. He rested his elbows on the carpet and brought both hands up to rest in the mess on his abdomen. His eyes were still shut as he struggled to calm his breathing.

Greg just stared at him, took in the image of the man covered in marks and bites and come. He brought his own hands up to rest over Mycroft's. Gave the other man's hands a squeeze and then settled them there. Then Greg slid forward on his knees. Brought them and his thighs alongside Mycroft until the man's hips were cradled between Greg's thighs. Mycroft dropped his knees a little. Wrapped his legs around Gregory's own hips.

He expected Gregory to come up over him. Stretch his body out on top of his own, let his weight settle into him, smear the come between their stomachs. Instead, Greg wrapped his hand around one of Mycroft's and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed and licked and sucked that hand clean then lifted the other and did the same. And then, as Mycroft watched, he finally bent forward and gave the same treatment to Mycroft's abdomen, his chest. Finally bowed his back so he could lick Mycroft's softened cock clean.

Only then did he finally stretch forward, bring his body up over Mycroft's. He hovered over him a moment then settled on the floor, off to the side a bit. He kicked off his pants and boxers that were still down around his ankles. Then he slid one arm under Mycroft's neck and the other over his waist and turned him into his embrace. Gregory held him there like that, petted his reddened back, massaged feeling back into his overexerted arms. Kissed his hair, his face, his lips.

As Mycroft's head rested on his shoulder, Greg brought his lips around to the man's ear. Kissed it, sucked the lobe into his mouth, licked softly up the rim. And then he whispered, "I want you, Mycroft Holmes. Always. Never doubt it again."


End file.
